


Random Brain Words

by grumpyphoenix



Category: Supernatural, everything - Fandom
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-27
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-08-18 05:06:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8150095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grumpyphoenix/pseuds/grumpyphoenix
Summary: Not really Drabbles, just stuff I blorted out of my fingers onto a document file. Some might get worked with more, some might not. Lots are bad.





	1. Chapter 1

This is a bunch of stuff I wrote that is small. Each chapter is its own thing, or may be related to other chapters. Warnings will be done individually.


	2. Up All Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SPN Writing Challenge for September. General Fic, KidFic, rated G, Unbeta'd.

_  
I got a popcorn ball! I got a rock…._

The tinny voices behind Dean cannot distract him from the stern voice on the other end of the phone. Nothing short of a fire could do that; he is riveted, held in place by his father’s ire. 

“I’m sorry, Dad. We won’t, I promise. How long…” Dean winces a little, resting his forehead against the wall next to the ancient teal phone mounted there. “No, of course, we have enough. We’ll be fine. Yes, sir, I remember. Yes sir.” He hangs up the phone and closes his eyes. 

Sammy is watching TV, curled up in the armchair they’d found by the side of the road last week. The stuffing was coming out, but some duct tape and ingenuity had fixed it. It smells a little like old cigarettes, but all the same, it’s the most comfortable piece of furniture in this cheap motel. He wasn’t sure why they’d kept the thing, but Sammy seemed to like to nest when they stayed somewhere for a while. This place rented by the week, and was full of drifters and some seriously sketchy people. Maybe that was why he’d left Dean with Sam this time. 

“It’s Halloween tonight,” Sam said, never taking his eyes off the old cartoon. 

Dean groans. He knows where this is going; Sam hadn’t stopped harping on it all week. 

“Dad told us not to,” Dean interrupts Sam just as he opens his mouth. “I mean, it Sammy, he was really mad.” 

Sometimes Dean should just keep his big mouth shut. 

* 

The plan that Dean had eventually been puppy-dog eyed into was to take Sammy to this stupid middle school party, and then straight home. Of course, he had already known that his brother was scamming him a little, but Dean just hadn’t figured on how much. Following the huge crowd of boisterous kids around in the freezing cold as they went from house to house, begging for treats from complete strangers was less comfortable than he’d like, but watching Sammy try to make his middle school moves on some girl was almost worth it. He was even able to check out some cute chick handing out candy dressed as if she was hosting an all night movie channel: in a tight black dress with enough cleavage for two women. Okay, sometimes Halloween was great. 

Eventually, he wrestles Sammy back to the hotel. Sammy refuses to take his costume off, and face plants onto his bed still wearing the silly cape. It reminds Dean of when the kid was three. They’d never gone trick or treating back then either, but all the kids wore costumes to school, and he loved it. He wore the same Scooby Doo costume a few years in a row, and Dean learned how to sew a little just so he could get more use out of it. Second grade, though, Dad put his foot down, and they never did it again. He’s happy he could give this to Sam at least once. He deserves to have something normal in his life. 

Dean pilfers some twizzlers from the grocery bag Sam had been toting around all night, and sinks into the comfy chair. When he realizes that he’s watching his brother sleep, he turns on the television. Surely, Elvira is on one of these channels.


	3. Yes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undercover at what turns out to be a witch-owned S&M club, Dean finds Cas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this as a palate cleanser a while ago, and it's been mouldering in my inbox. I thought I'd stick it in this pile of rando things I'd written. It of course, smacks of a larger thing, but ... what that could be, IDK!

TAGS:BONDAGE, WITCHERY, SOME MIND SCREWING WITH.

Sam had seemed so reasonable. “Dean," he’d said, with that goddamn smile that says way too much about how moronic Dean is currently being, “You’ve been at the club in the middle of the week, and of course it was empty. I took Friday, today is Saturday, and _you_ are going. There is no way I am doing both weekend days.”

Dean grinds his teeth. As far as he is concerned, the witches they are looking for can _have_ this fucking club. Low lights and horrible music that still somehow gets under his skin and fake smoke everyplace that just gets on his nerves. He is used to rowdy, he can handle hedonism, but there is something about this place that just hits him the wrong way. He downs his drink in one swallow, and lets the burn carry him away from the bar. 

Sam dressed him for this, stopping him before he left when he realized that Dean was just going to wear jeans and a tee shirt. Sam, it turns out, had turned his head for research to just this problem when they tracked the coven down to this club. He produced ominous looking shopping bags from nowhere, and bullied, guilted, and wheedled Dean into dressing… Dean can’t even think about it. Sam somehow even got him to sit still as he applied eyeliner. Attached to the waistband of his shiny “pants” is a small gold pin in the shape of devil’s horns. It gets him into the private section in the back. 

The soundproofing between sections of the club is faultless; the cacophony of the front is gone so suddenly that he almost stumbles. It is still too dim, but the music is better, a driving beat that gets into his head and plays a little with his libido. 

He finds it impossible to blend in, and he can’t figure out where to look without feeling like a pervert. The second time he watches a woman leading a man dressed as a horse by a leash, he backs up until he finds a wall, and tries to become one with it. The room is spinning, he is sure he’s going to fall and everyone is going to slide off into oblivion. They took his phone, or he would be calling Sam right now and making him show up. He sidles until he hits a red door and not thinking, opens it and slips through. 

He recognizes _this music_ , even if it drags him back into the 90s for a half second. It is almost completely dark, and he can sense many people around him before his eyes adjust. The only area lit well is a stage. On it is a giant x, on which a naked bound man is being beaten. He is counting the strokes, in an ecstatic tone that sends a thrill down Dean’s spine. The man with artfully mussed black hair holding the wicked looking flogger is tall, elegant, wearing tight leather pants and an immaculately tailored leather waistcoat with lace up ties along the spine. He paces the floor gracefully, giving the submissive some time, making him beg if he wants more. Dean drifts forward, pushing through the eerily silent people packed tightly around him. He can feel a strange current that passes through the crowd, and it makes his nipples harden. The man on the stage has to be the witch he is looking for, because Dean wants nothing more than to watch him until dismissed, because he knows when he’s been hexed, because he wants…he wants… 

The submissive on the cross tearfully begs for more. A blissful sigh ripples through the audience. Dean has never made that noise in his life, but he just did, he doesn’t care, he just wants to see more. Dean can’t control his breathing, and his heart feels as if it will break out of his chest. The man on the stage holds a finger up and there is quiet again. He begins to beat the submissive harder, and the music seems to anticipate his needs, becoming relentless along with him. Dean stops at the foot of the stage. He knows he is in a crowd, he dimly registers people pressing around him, but everything has narrowed down to this man; his back, the muscles on his arm, the way his ass flexes in his pants as he brings pain hurtling downward. He begins to anticipate each blow, his body becoming tense and jerking hard when he sees it land. When the sounds of counting become incoherent begging, the man stops and delicately whispers in the submissive’s ear while gently trailing the flogger over his red, welted ass. Dean is captivated, his hands clenching and unclenching absently. He is not captivated; he is in control. His dick is hard, painful in these stupid pants, and he is _not captivated_. 

A woman comes up to claim the submissive on the cross, wrapping him in something soft and murmuring to him gently. There is a moment of utter silence. Dean discovers he is holding his breath and grinds his teeth hard. The man on the stage taps the handle of his flogger against his thigh with the music, turning around to look at the crowd, looking imperiously for another. As if they were one person, the crowd shrinks back from his gaze: all but one. 

Dean Winchester, hunter, veteran of the apocalypse, a man who is absolutely in control of his own damned libido; he does not shrink from the most intensely blue gaze he has ever seen in his life. Instead, he steps forward and gasps out, “Cas?” 

Castiel arches one eyebrow, and looks Dean up and down from the top of his gelled hair to his boot-clad toes. There is a silence that seems to stretch a physical mile, and Dean can’t stop himself from shaking. He growls in the back of his throat. 

Castiel comes down the stairs slowly, keeping eye contact and pausing halfway down while holding out one hand, palm down. Somewhere inside him, Dean feels the last spark of something defiant and angry flare and then sputter out.

Dean kneels, offering up his own hand, palm up. 

He is floating in a dream; it has to be a dream. He is naked, and in pain, but it is delicious and he can’t stop begging for more. Castiel’s voice floats through the fog, his lips tracing the outer shell of Dean’s ear, and he would give that voice anything it asked. Right now, it is asking for Dean’s submission, for his permission to take everything Castiel wants, and all Dean can do is gasp out one word; the word he denied to an archangel, the word he denied heaven and all its hosts. 


End file.
